


Phone Dilemmas and Kissing Things

by orphan_account



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Child!OC - Freeform, Crossover, F/M, Fluff, Mortinez, Who is Mr. Stuffins?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:26:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6473950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though neither of them ask why, the six-year-old says, “She has Mr. Stuffins!” as if that explains everything.</p><p>He thinks he understands somewhat, but before he can move to explain, Wren looks to Jo with her wide eyes and asks if she can make a call. The Detective fishes around in her pockets for her phone but comes up empty-handed - she must’ve forgot it in the cruiser, which means the responsibility now falls on Henry. </p><p>Wren turns her wide-eyed charm on him and asks, “Can I use your phone, Mr. Cop?”</p><p>Henry, Jo, and the trouble of sunken phones and do-we-or-don't-we.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phone Dilemmas and Kissing Things

**Author's Note:**

> Or, the one where Henry and Jo help rescue a kidnapped girl who is /so/ not here for their romance. Odd, though, she bears an eerie resemblance to one of the team...
> 
> It'a companion piece to My Heart, but can also be read as more of a standalone.
> 
> Written for the Hug Henry Morgan Day Ficathon, where Henry's given some much-needed love on the anniversary of his first death.
> 
> Set around episode 01x03 of Forever and episode 03x12 of Castle.

“Are you quite certain this is the correction location, Detective?” Henry asks as they venture out onto the warehouse’s floor, cold draft from the ocean drifting in through the factory’s broken windows. The wind moves into the room over the jagged shards of glass and creates a long, eerie whistling noise that reminds him of something long passed, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He can’t. Not when they’ve a child to rescue.

“I’m sure, Henry - this is where Kate said.”

They’d promised Kate and the rest of the 12th that they’d help however they could (or, more accurately, Jo had promised and Henry just took it in stride). Though the team from the 12th isn’t here just yet, he figures they’re not far from the scene.

“With the way Javier drives, I imagine they’ll be here in a moment’s notice.” He’d meant to bring a smile to the Detective’s face with the joke, and he succeeds a little. Because she _does_ smile, it just doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Of course, I’m not too enthused to be working with the 12th’s very own Lucas Wahl again.”

Jo gives more a proper smile, then, a real one, and murmurs, “Oh, c’mon, Henry. He’s not _that_ bad, is he?”

Henry gives her a look that says that oh, he truly is. “Actually, there was this one time where, for my birthday-”

Both freeze in an instant when they hear a noise not too far off from where they’re standing. The story dies in Henry’s throat, words stolen by fear. If they move, they could startle the kidnapper into firing his gun - and they can’t risk that, not when he’s taken a child. Especially not when he’s taken a child.  She’ll be the third one they’ve to rescue in the past week alone, and it’s enough to have both of them on edge. The two stay frozen in place a long moment, waiting, and Jo looks ready to draw her weapon when the noise comes again. It’s close by, but not too loud. At first, Henry thinks it’s probably just Castle being...well, _Castle_.

He leans in close to Jo to murmur his suspicions, then, voice low so as not to be heard, “You know, one would think Castle would’ve learned to be a touch quieter by now.”

She gives something of a smile at that but doesn’t egg him on the way she usually would out on a case. He imagines it’s the high-stakes nature of this case; he knows she’s been working herself to the brink of exhaustion over it, and the shadows under her eyes whisper of the beginnings of sleep deprivation.

“Jo?” He says then, and she turns to look at him with a raised eyebrow. Though he’s been careful to keep their relationship as professional as possible in the weeks since their last case with the 12th, he doesn’t particularly think she needs an M.E. right now. She needs a friend.

So he moves a comforting hand to her shoulder and offers her a smile he hopes is convincing. “We’ll find her, you know.”

She nods her head but doesn’t say a word, almost like she doesn’t trust her voice in the moment. He leaves his hand on her shoulder for a heartbeat longer than what he deems professional, then, and he thinks she needs that moment to gather her strength. And then it’s back to listening, searching.

They’re looking for one Wren Delaney, a six-year-old who’d been snatched from the park by none other than her babysitter. That’d been around four o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, and her adoptive mother had reported her missing soon after that. But they have to work fast with this one - because the kidnapper hasn’t been keeping his previous victims alive for longer than forty-eight hours after he’s taken them. And he’s already had Wren for over twenty-six hours.

The noise from before comes again, a little louder and awfully close. And now that he thinks about it, the noise doesn’t sound like Castle at all. It’s much too soft, for one thing, and for another, it doesn’t grate on his nerves like most of the writer’s antics. It almost sounds like...sniffling. Muffled sniffling, like the person doing it is covering their nose with their hand or their shirtsleeve. Which would fit with a description that Wren’s adoptive mother had given them - she’d said the girl was allergic to most any kind of dust, and he imagines the thick film of it in the air isn’t doing her lungs much good.

But before he can even so much as alert the Detective to what he’s realized, a blur of brown limbs and wild curly hair is racing towards him. It’s Wren, he realizes with a start of equal surprise and relief. Though he has no idea where in the world she came from, he’s glad to see that she appears rather unharmed.

She collides with his leg in seconds, wailing and murmuring something unintelligible between her panicked sobs. It sounds a lot like, “Help, call for help!”

Jo lowers herself to the girl’s eye level and says, voice low and warm, and so, so very soft, “Everything’s alright, Wren. I promise. Where were you?”

Some soft and unprofessional feeling seeps into his stomach, then, and he fixes his gaze on the girl between them so he doesn’t dwell on just why that is. Because there’s certainly a reason, a long list of reasons, but he knows this isn’t the time or the place to think about it. So he doesn’t, turning his attention back to the case and the girl.

Wren seems to accept what the good Detective’s said easy enough, but she does think to ask for her badge. Smart little girl. After showing her their badges (or in Henry’s case, I.D.), Jo assures her that they’ve been working with some people who really want to bring her home. “Like your mom, Wren. And we’re gonna make sure you get back to her safe, okay?”

“Okay.” She shows them her hiding place after that, walking them over to a couple of old shipping crates. Though if she’d simply hidden behind one or even inside them, he’s not sure. As he looks around to see where her kidnapper might’ve gone off to, the good Detective tries to get them some much-needed information. She asks Wren where he might be and why he’d left her alone, to which the girl says, quiet as the wind, “He told me that there were cameras all over and that if I moved, then-”

“Then? Jo prompts, kneeling so that she’s on eye-level with the six-year-old. Henry’s gaze sweeps the room as he spins about in a slow circle, looking for those cameras. He finds not one, not three, but seven of them stationed at various points in the warehouse. And he’s fairly certain that someone’s watching their every move in a room not far from here.

“Then-then he’d have one of the men upstairs come down here. And that didn’t sound too good.”

“No, it doesn’t sound too good.” The Detective agrees before she promises Wren that she won’t let it happen.

Wren seems to trust her on that, but after a good minute, she decides she has to talk to her older sister Quinn. Though neither of them ask why, the six-year-old says, “She has Mr. Stuffins!” as if that explains everything.

Henry understands, somewhat - when Abe was about her age, he had a blanket (which he'd affectionately named Wubby) that he carried around quite literally everywhere, and grew frantic whenever he was without it. From the looks of Wren’s wide eyes and panicked, shaky breaths, this Mr. Stuffins is most certainly like a security blanket.

Before he can move to explain, Wren looks to Jo with her wide eyes and asks if she can make a call. The Detective fishes around in her pockets for her phone but comes up empty-handed - she must’ve forgot it in the cruiser, which means the responsibility now falls on Henry.

Wren turns her wide-eyed charm on him and asks, “Can I use your phone, Mr. Cop?”

Henry smiles at the way she addresses him - though he’s certainly not a cop, she needn’t know that right now. He unbuttons his coat and holds it open with both hands, showing her that all seven of his pockets are also empty of a phone. Though they’re not empty of other things, for he keeps little oddities in the depths of his pockets - small vials and test tubes of assorted dangerous liquids (he’d been experimenting with poisons last week), an extra pair of latex gloves, and a note written in Abe’s neat scrawl. And then there’s the worn, well-loved family photography from the 40’s...that, he keeps tucked away in the pocket closest to his heart.

Wren’s quick to look over his things, and she lets out an indignant huff against his pant leg - obviously not impressed when she steps away from him and asks, exasperated, “You don’t have a phone?”

He thinks about it a moment and says that he does have one, actually. Because he _does_ , it just disappeared along with the rest of his possessions the last time he’d died. (But she needn’t know that little detail.)

But her eyes still light up with glee at the prospect and he gives her a wry smile when he clarifies, “I do have one, but it ah…” He tries to think of a way to describe his re-awakenings without getting too close to the truth and settles on, “It sank the last time I went for a swim.”

Wren gives a bird-like tilt of her head at that as Jo steps away to scan the perimeter, and a wave of her perfume rolls him over as she does. _Concentrate, Henry._

The girl in front of him is crossing her arms over her chest like she doesn’t believe his story one bit (and he supposes he could’ve thought of a better one), intense green eyes boring into his like she just _knows_ he’s leaving something out.

Head craned up to look at him, she moves a hand to her hip and gives an “ _uh-huh_ ” that says she doesn’t believe him in the slightest. She also declares that he talks funny and asks him to say more things.  
  
Not knowing what more to say and not wanting to draw too much attention to themselves, he keeps his voice low when he asks, "Like what?"

"Something British." Then head craned up to look at him and eyes narrowed into slits. "You  _are_ British, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course. I was born there a long time ago." And he realizes then that she looks familiar, somehow.

He'd gotten the same feeling when he and Jo had looked over her photo in the case file - both of them felt like they'd recognized her from somewhere. It's now that he realizes the child in front of him doesn't seem familiar because they've seen her before, but rather because she resembles someone the two are fairly close with: the 12th precinct's M.E., Lanie Parish. The resemblance isn't obvious at first glance, but it's there: in the curls of her loose dark hair, made wild from the wind, in the warm brown tone of her skin, and in the shape of her nose and lips. She's still got a look on her face that says she's not completely convinced he's telling the truth, but he's not sure if it's more to do with the phone or his origins. Probably both.

She's a smart girl indeed.

“But you know what, little bird?” Henry asks then, hoping to shift the subject away from him a bit. He’s not told anyone about his secret in years, and he’d rather not have an outspoken, intelligent child as one of the first to find out.

Wren takes the bait and gives a curious tilt of her head as he undoes his scarf from around his neck.

“What’re you doing that for?” She asks, little nose scrunched up in confusion. “It’s cold out.”

“It is,” He agrees as he kneels down to her eye-level.

To her immense surprise and delight, he drapes the brilliant purple silk around her shoulders and does it up with expert care, bundling up layers and layers of the fabric over her coat.

When he’s satisfied with his handiwork, he says, “But I do believe you look splendid in my scarf. And I think you need it more than I do.”

She grins up at him then, absolutely gleeful as she tells him that Mr. Stuffins is going to love it. A wistful smile comes to Henry's lips when he says that he sincerely hopes so, and he's briefly reminded of Abe's own days as a boy. He'd been absolutely adorable when he'd go babbling on about something that excited him, and he thinks the same is true for the girl stood in front of him now. She talks of Mr. Stuffins as though he's more than just a favorite toy, though she never really describes what it looks like. He supposes it's not important as long as she keeps her voice down - because while the good Detective's certainly armed and ready if the men from upstairs choose to make an appearance, he most certainly is not. Wren stays happily oblivious to that fact, asking him all manner of things. Six-year-old things, like what he likes to do and what his favorite color is and which one of them can ran the fastest. Since he can't exactly tell a small child about his morbid fascination with death and how he spends long hours researching it, he tells her instead of his other hobbies. Normal hobbies, like reading books and being around those he considers his friends.  
  
"But I'm afraid I don't have a favorite color, actually." And he really doesn't.

"What d'you _mean_ , you don't have a favorite color?" Wren asks in response, forehead wrinkling in exasperation as she insists, "Everyone has a favorite color!"

Though he's glad he seems to have earned her trust and calmed her down enough that she's wiling to argue about favorite colors, he really is starting to worry that someone's going to hear them. And a quick glance around tells him that Jo isn't close by, which could prove to be trouble if the kidnapper  _does_ send someone after them. He just has to hope that things don't come to that, and certainly not before Kate and Castle can arrive on the scene.

She's in the middle of asking him another question when a red-eyed laser point flickers over the floor, Wren’s shoes, and face before it finally centers on his scarf. The scarf she’s now wearing. Henry sucks in a sharp breath when he realizes the point’s right over her heart.  _Oh, no._ The kidnapper must’ve called one of “the men upstairs” to take care of it. To take care of her. His stomach churns at the thought, and he feels sick. Dizzy. He can’t do this again, he can’t- and he can feel his mind being tugged _hard_ back into the past even as he tries to ground himself in the present. (Because Abe had had a gun pointed at him once in his teenage years and he’ll be damned if he lets this child experience that same mind-numbing fear.)

He can't ask her to run, can't ask her to move, not when her every impulse would be to duck, or to freeze in place. He can't even ask her to look down, because then she'd be much too panicked to do anything more than scream.

So he summons every ounce of his calm, cool composure and says, “I want you to drop to the floor, little bird. Right when I say, alright?” over the pounding of his own loud, racing heart. It’s like his very blood is singing, the chorus of its mad rush drowning out near everything else.

Wren’s still looking at him, not the target on his scarf, so she doesn’t yet know what’s going on. She just nods and gives a shaky, “Okay, Mr. Cop.”

She drops to the floor the instant he says, “Now, Wren!” and he doesn’t give it a second thought before he moves to shield her body with his own. He hugs her tight to him and doesn’t dare make a move otherwise, doesn’t even breathe. She’s back to sobbing again as he holds her, a shaking little bird against his chest, and he finds himself murmuring the same soft, gentle reassurances he used to tell Abe as a boy after a nightmare. “You’re alright, it’s all going to be alright…”

This is different from Abe’s post-nightmares, though, because she asks, “But what if it’s not? What if you don’t come back next time?” between sobs. He doesn’t think he’s heard her quite right at first, but then she says it again, “What if you don’t come back? What if you can’t remember how to swim?”

He should’ve been shot by now, should’ve felt the sudden and sharp wave of pain in his back by now. But it hasn’t come yet. Even so, he still feels like the breath’s been knocked clean out of him at Wren’s question - his mind can’t work fast enough to come up with a lie, to come up with anything but the truth, so he tells this little bird of a girl the only thing he can: he tells her he always comes back.

Eyes shut tight, he can’t see anything that’s happening around them: he can’t see Ryan and Esposito apprehending the shooter before he hits his target, and he can’t see Kate and Castle rushing onto the scene and bounding up the stairs after their team. But he hears it.

He can just make out the sounds of a struggle, too, and a loud metallic clanging noise that echoes around the room. If he had to guess, he’d say Kate had just slammed the gunman’s hand against the stairs' railing so hard, it'd fractured a few of his fingers. He thinks he’d smile at Castle’s accompanying, “ _ooh,_ that’s gotta hurt” if he wasn’t still so keyed up on adrenaline. It sure _sounded_ like it'd hurt the shooter, but somehow, Henry can't find an ounce of sympathy for him.

“Hands behind your head.” He registers Kate saying above the noise of his racing heart and Wren’s sniffling sobs.

He doesn’t know how long he exists in that space, just waiting, murmuring soft things to the girl in his arms and hoping, hoping, hoping, there aren’t any more gunmen. Hoping that he doesn’t have to die today, not in front of her - in front of Wren, in front of Jo, in front of Kate’s whole team...but especially not in front of Wren. Abe had seen one of his deaths, once, and he thinks it still haunts him into his old age.

But then it’s all over.

It’s all over and the room’s quiet and the Detective’s putting a warm hand on his back as he dares open his eyes again. He concentrates hard on the sound of her voice in his ear and the feeling of the child in his arms. They're both _safe, everyone’s safe,_ and he didn’t have to die to see to that fact. He’s so relieved about both counts that he can hardly speak, can hardly breathe.

“Thank you for today, Henry.”

He’s not the words to ask for what or the breath to laugh, and he doesn't understand why in the world Jo’s thought to thank him - he was the one who’d gotten them all into this chaos. He’d went walking about the docks when he should’ve stayed close to Jo, and he’d assured her that it couldn’t hurt to canvas the warehouse before the others arrived.

When words come, he manages, “What exactly for, Detective?" He's still a little when he smiles and says, "Because for a minute there, I worried I’d done more harm than good.”

“For a minute there, I’d thought the same. You scared me, Henry.” Jo says then as she helps him up, and there’s no hard edge in her voice - just the truth. Some soft, unprofessional feeling stirs in his heart at that, and he lets it come.

She offers him a little smile of her own, then. “But for once,  I'm actually grateful for your lack of self-preservation” as she lets go of his hand.

And he does laugh, then, a shaky sound as he rights himself from the floor, hand falling away from Jo’s once he’s standing again.

His voice is warm, honest, as he says, “I would've taken the same course of action had it been you, you know."

Jo looks kind of surprised for a moment, mouth opening and closing in disbelief before she shakes her head and says, “Yeah...yeah, I know.” around the softest of smiles.

“Are you guys gonna do the kissing thing now?” Comes a voice between them, and the strange spell that’d fallen over them is broken as sudden as it’d came on. Just like that day in the rain, when Kate had asked for their help -Jo's help, really, and she'd merely bribed him into coming along- identifying a body. It figures all these little moments between him and Jo would happen during high-stakes cases and not...well, any other imaginable time.

And he doesn’t know if it’s the adrenaline still coursing through his veins or the knowledge that they’re all okay, but he doesn’t stop himself from leaning in a little closer to Jo and murmuring, “I think I should ask the Detective out for lunch a good few times first, or maybe dinner if she'd prefer it” around that of a warm, warm smile.

And he's giving her this look, then, - the same look he'd given her out in the rain with Kate and Castle all those weeks ago - his gaze wine-dark and warm and _open_ , so very open. (Because really, it’s not just the adrenaline or the fact that they’re all safe.)

The Detective’s mouth falls open at his words and she's left sputtering for a response as Wren wrinkles up her nose and yells, “Eww, that's it! I'm gonna go hang out with the other Mr. Cop!”

Hanson and Lucas arrived on scene minutes after Kate and Castle did, and both of them turn a blind eye towards...whatever this is between he and Jo. As Wren sprints towards the two, Hanson actually looks a little terrified - whereas Lucas is studying her features with the keen eye of a medical student.

“Does anyone else think she looks a little like Lani-”

Hanson has the good sense to punch Lucas in the arm before he can finish that statement, ‘lest either Lanie or Javier are in hearing range. Lucas is quick to cover it up, coughing and saying, “Lana Del Ray, I mean! Yeah. It's the nose. Totally the nose.”

Wren wrinkles her nose again and protests, “Nah-uh, Mr. Scrubs! I don't have her nose, I'll show you!”

And then, with a world-weary sigh and a glance back at Henry, she looks to Lucas and Hanson and asks, “Do _you_ have a phone?”

It’s only later, the kidnapper and his accomplice in study, that Henry’s world really begins to slow down again. He volunteers to walk along the docks with Wren for a bit as the CSU team does some last-minute fingerprinting works. They’re looking to the water and the white, frothy waves of the ocean when Wren turns to him and says, without preamble, “You look a lot better when you’re not in the river, Mr. Cop.”

He still doesn’t know how she knows, because he’d made certain to wash the smell out of his hair and change into fresh-laundered clothes before coming into work this morning. When he sputters out a surprised and confused, “But how do you-”

Wren just gives him another birdlike tilt of her head and says only, “Mr. Stuffins told me.”

So it would seem Mr. Stuffins is actually a psychic security blanket. Huh. Well, he supposes he’s witnessed odder in his long, long life. He thinks to tell her that she really doesn't have to call him Mr. Cop, and that Henry will do just fine. When he tells her that he's not a cop at all, but actually more of a doctor, she just gives an, _“Mhmm”_ that sounds so much like Lanie, he has to wonder. Her loose, dark curls and warm brown skin-tone bear an eerily similarity to Lanie’s, too, as do various bits and pieces of her personality, so he supposes it's certainly possible they _could_ be related. But the real question he keeps turning over and over in his mind hasn't a thing to do with that. No, what he really wants to know is _who is Mr. Stuffins?_

* * *

They close the case with relative ease later that same day, and the whole precinct celebrates late into the night. He sticks to the outer edges of the party as he usually does with department events, sipping on one of his so-called “fancy-schmancy” drinks as he watches his friends and colleagues mingling about.

Lieutenant Reece catches his eye as he walks over to Kate and her team, and she smiles at him as he passes. “You did some good work out there today with the 12th, Henry. You and Detective Martinez.”

He offers her a genuine thank you and bids her a goodnight - she’s got her jacket slung over her arm and looks like she’s headed for the elevator. She winks at him as she goes, murmuring that she’s getting too damn old for all these parties. He gives a wry smile at the comment and gives a soft, “Oh, you’ve no idea.”

His immortality’s become something of an inside joke with himself, these days. It’s almost comical, watching his colleagues trying to discern just how it is he knows people and places long passed, or why he talks of the turn of the early 1900s as though as he was really there. But that’s just the thing - he really was.

The Lieutenant gives a tilt of her head and offers a cryptic, “But I might.”

Any other night, he’d think long and hard about what that could mean. He’d probably throw himself into a fit over it, leave the party early, and declare that Abe should find their passports as soon as possible. But tonight, he doesn’t do anything of the sort: just nods and gives her his final well wishes for the night.

And then, without preamble, he strides right up to Kate and the rest of the gang. While he greets them all with a polite and friendly hello, he’s really only got eyes for one Detective in particular. She notices his eyes on her in an instant. And he’s not sure if it’s the wine in her glass or the warmth of his gaze that’s got a blush creeping into her cheeks, but he quite likes it all the same.

He reminds himself to test this theory along with the one from some time ago, bribe her away from her desk and out of the precinct with promises of a warm meal and decent company.

For now, though, he slows his stride and pauses in front of her, standing close as he murmurs, “Good evening, Detective.”

His smile’s slow and warm as it spreads across his face, and he licks the inside of his lips before he asks, without fanfare, “Do you know where I might buy a phone?”

And he thinks that blush only deepens before she finds the words to answer him (though he's not sure what's quite so stimulating about a phone of all things). Castle gives them a wolf-whistle from Kate’s side, and Lanie hollers something that sounds positively criminal. To their credit, both Ryan and Esposito roll their eyes and murmur, “British guys” before walking away.

“I uh...yeah.” Jo says, blinking once, twice, looking a little like she’s waking from a dream. “I could take you if you wanted.”

“And you’re sure you’re not joking, Detective?” Henry asks then, a little bit of magic in his voice when he says it. It’s a magic reserved for her and only her, and he hopes she knows it.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Doctor.” Jo says in reply, smiling herself and looking like for all the world, she isn’t.

Wren runs across the room from her seat beside her mum, then, and quite literally collides with his leg, hugging him tight and yelling, “Lemme go out with him first, I want a turn!”

And for the life of him, Henry can’t stop himself from throwing his head back and laughing before assuring both of them that yes, they’ll each get a turn.

“If, of course, you'd like one.” He says a moment later, laughter still dancing in his gaze as he looks to Jo.

She murmurs a soft, “Always” in response before Wren slaps her hands over her eyes and says, as only a six-year-old can,

“Are you guys gonna do the kissing thing _now_?”

And Jo just grins at him, wicked glint in her eyes when she echoes Henry’s words and says, “Maybe. But only if, of course, Henry wants to.”

He murmurs that he does indeed want to, and it's that simple. The question of do-we-or-don't-we ends the moment the words leave his lips, because in the next minute, all he can feel are Jo's lips on his own and the warmth of her hands on his shoulders. She laughs against his lips as his eyes slip closed and Wren runs away yelling, _"Ew, I didn't wanna_ see _it!"_ And then the rest of the world falls away and it's just this: him and her and every one of their almost-kisses from today, from last month, from _ever_ , really, rolled into one.

But it's a soft thing, though - as soft as falling snow and slow as honey. It lasts a long heartbeat, two, three, and one hand cups her cheek while the other runs through her hair. They linger a touch longer, just for a second, and then let the rest of the world back in again. Their foreheads come to rest together as Jo pulls away from him, and there's a touch of magic in her voice when she says, "So, about that phone..."

Yes, he thinks today’s ended on a high-note indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> This is all a giant reference to how Henry Morgan is actually Vincent Valentine. And I regret nothing.


End file.
